


doubleshot

by synapses



Series: star-spangled one shots [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Banter, Bucky is a jerk, F/M, but he's your jerk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17994347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synapses/pseuds/synapses
Summary: You're a coffee addict. Bucky Barnes is the asshole barista who spells your name wrong on purpose. AU.Inspired by this post http://themultifandomnerd.tumblr.com/post/113819364961/rivalry-to-romance-aus





	doubleshot

**Author's Note:**

> yay for oneshots they're the only thing i can write these days

You’re pretty sure the asshole barista at your (former) favorite cafe on Noble and West has blacklisted you from every coffee shop in the Brooklyn area. 

You get your first hint that something is wrong when you walk into Bluestone Roastery with an insane craving for a bear claw. 

“Hi, Amy,” you say brightly, “Can I get a bear claw and a medium latte?”

“We’re all out,” she responds, fidgeting nervously with her bright pink ponytail. “Of bear claws, and lattes.”

You wonder if she’s gone temporarily insane. 

“Of—of lattes?” you say incredulously. “You’re a coffee shop! And I can see the bear claws right there!”

She shrugs apologetically, but stubbornly refuses to give you either item. Eventually you throw your hands up in the air, frustrated, and walk out. The same thing happens at the Hungry Ghost Café. And at Black Bean. And at Ari’s Bread Company. Something is afoot, and you know exactly who’s to blame. 

You storm furiously into Miranda’s, your favorite coffee shop—or at least it had been until about five minutes ago. 

Miranda’s is wonderful for several reasons. It’s close to work, the coffee is cheap, and the décor is almost painfully charming: antique, mismatched tables, chairs you can sink right into, and a fireplace that’s always burning. It smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, and unlike its trendier competitors, it attracts all types, from aspiring writers hunkered over their laptops to moms wandering in for an afternoon pick-me-up. When you have time, you like to come in early and spend the hours just after dawn nestled in your favorite plush armchair, tucked in the back corner with a latte and a good book. You know most of the employees by name, and sometimes, when you’ve been there for a while, Miranda (owner of the shop, kindly middle-aged lady, goddess among women) emerges from the back room and gently hands you a cinnamon bun to “taste test.” In other words, Miranda’s is your place. And you’re not just going to let that douchebag barista take it from you. 

A few customers look up at the sound of your footsteps; you don’t mean to stomp, not exactly, but you’re too irritated to control how loud your boots are on the hardwood floors.

“Where is he?” you hiss. Steve is working the counter, and he looks bewildered. You almost feel bad, but you’ve had exactly no cups of coffee today and your caffeine dependence is legendary. 

“Where’s who?” he asks, an expression of confusion scrunching his eyebrows together. 

“Bucky!” You barely manage to stop yourself from shouting, and you realize you’ve leaned halfway across the counter. “I know he’s working today, Rogers. Tell him to get out here, so I can murder him!” 

Steve glances towards the back room and then guiltily looks back towards you. “He’s not here,” he says, slowly. 

You glare at him, resisting the impulse to grab a fistful of his shirt and drag him down to your level. 

A voice interrupts your staredown. “If you wanted to see me, doll, all you had to do was be patient.”

You see Bucky’s tall, muscular form come into view behind Steve. He’s holding a mug of coffee, and his steely grey eyes are slightly smug. He leans against the counter in front of you, his expression deliberately serene. 

“What the fuck is your play here, Barnes?” you say, seething. 

“Sweetheart, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He imbues just enough false innocence in the words to make it sound true. Maybe it’s his tone, or the fact that you’re close enough to catch the dizzyingly clean citrus scent of his cologne, but for the briefest instant, you’re convinced that he’s completely sincere. 

You shake your head a little to banish the thought, narrowing your eyes. “Bullshit. I know you convinced the other baristas to stop serving me coffee.”

He has the temerity to raise his eyebrows at Steve, who’s watching your exchange with wide eyes, and pretend to be offended. “When would I even have the time to do that?” he says, indignant. 

“Please.” You cross your arms. “I know you’ve dated half the baristas in Brooklyn. It wouldn’t be that hard.” 

“Jealous?” Bucky asks. His eyes are trained on you, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but they seem to darken slightly at the question. 

“Uh huh. You got me, Barnes. Now call them off, so I can try to avert my migraine in time to actually give my presentation at work today.” You rub your temples, desperate for your caffeine fix. 

“Look,” he says. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but here”—he picks up a cup and starts scrawling on it in black Sharpie— “I’m sorry you’re having a bad day. I’ll make you a latte on the house.”

He busies himself with making your drink. It takes you several seconds to realize what a good play he’s made; he’s made himself seem virtuous in front of Steve by playing dumb and offering you a free drink, while you’ve only made yourself look bad. You grind your teeth in frustration. 

Bucky sets your drink on the counter. “Good luck on your presentation,” he says, and you feel a pang of guilt for yelling at him. You thank him, sullenly. 

Fifteen seconds later, when you’re outside Miranda’s and you see what he’s written on the coffee cup instead of your name, you’re fuming again. In surprisingly graceful handwriting you’ve come to recognize are two words— _Drama Queen._

**

You’d been a regular at the café for a few months when Miranda first hired Bucky Barnes. (She’d hired Steve then too, since the two seemed to come as a set, but Steve’s appearance had never really stuck in your mind the way that Bucky’s had.) You’d walked into Miranda’s one freezing morning, heavily bundled in your scarf and with cheeks still pink from the chill, and spotted him making mochas for a group of giggly middle-school girls. His hair was tied back in a bun, shirt pushed past his forearms, and he was blushing a little bit as one of the girls made an ill-fated attempt to flirt with him. 

You’d fully expected to turn beet red and stutter the entire way through your coffee order, so you’d walked right out again. Within a few weeks, all of your coworkers were gossiping about him, voicing the opinion that you were unwilling to say—Bucky was hot as hell. 

The one thing that wasn’t perfect about him was that he was an _asshole_. The first time you’d been brave enough to actually come in and get your coffee, he had been flirting with a gorgeous blonde, and neither of them seemed like they had any intention of moving. You’d cleared your throat gently. He’d looked you up and down, gaze intense, then away, clearly disinterested. You’d felt about two inches tall. Then he’d heaved a sigh and went to make the woman’s coffee. 

After that, every single time, no matter how clearly you said your name, he would spell it wrong. Week after week, it grew more and more egregious, even when you spelled it out for him. Sometimes he would even substitute in another name that didn’t sound anything like yours, or write a nickname on the cup. 

You’d gotten to know Steve pretty well, so when he mentioned that his best friend Bucky also worked there, you connected the dots. And you started getting _his_ name wrong on principle. 

Things had kind of escalated from there. He’d crashed your blind date at a sports bar with his friend Sam one evening and flicked peanuts at your date the whole time. (The guy hadn’t asked you to meet up again, unsurprisingly.) You’d set a dog loose in the café during peak morning hours (to be fair, it wasn’t on purpose, but you really had enjoyed seeing Bucky chase after your aunt’s show poodle). And now he’d blackballed you from getting a good cup of coffee. 

You hate his guts. But the freeze-out means that the only place you can go and still be served is Miranda’s. The next day, you show up bright and early. He looks tired, maybe even a little exhausted—there’s blue shadows under his eyes, like he couldn’t even catch a wink. You have the sudden urge to run a thumb along his cheekbones, as if you could wipe the dark circles away. 

You push that thought into a locked box in the corner of your mind and chirp, “Hi, Benny. How are you on this fine morning?” Your tone, full of false brightness, does its job.

“Doll, the fact that you’re a morning person is an affront to this earth.” He scowls. 

He starts making your usual order, and you feel a small jolt of surprise that he’s been paying close enough attention to remember. 

“So, shortcake, been on any dates lately?” Bucky smirks at you. 

It’s only been a week, but thanks to Steve, he knows all about your disastrous date. Halfway through, the guy had ditched out the bathroom window after getting a notification that some EDM artist was making a surprise performance at a venue across town. You swear it’s the last time you’re going to let any of your friends set you up, least of all Wanda, who has rather eclectic taste in men. 

“No.” It feels like a concession to admit it to him. “How’s your latest romance going, Barnes? You gonna settle down with her? Find a nice brownstone, have some kids? Or is hit it and quit it still the only thing you do?”

“I haven’t had any complaints so far.” He grins, something purely masculine. You remember how much you despise his stupid handsome face. 

“And hey, at least I’m not eating ice cream on my couch and watching soap operas every night.” 

“I’ll have you know that I don’t watch _soap operas_.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You imagine wrapping both hands around his throat and strangling him. An expression of pure ecstasy rolls across your face. Bucky gets a hunted look in his eyes. 

“What are you imagining?” he asks, choking a little bit. 

Your voice gets breathy, and maybe even a little bit sexy. “My hands. Around your neck. Squeezing.”

“Didn’t know you were that kinky.” 

“Oh, my murder fantasies are only for you, baby,” you purr, managing to make it sound so dirty that he’s taken aback. 

You get an odd look from the nice old lady standing behind you in line, but you hear the gravelly tone in his voice and know you've won. You grab the coffee cup he’s holding limply in his hands, wave to Steve, who’s in the back, and flounce out.

This time, the cup says _Serial Killer_ , with a tiny skull next to the looping cursive. 

**

You’ve always bemoaned the fact that you and Bucky have so many mutual friends: it feels like some cruel joke that the universe is playing on you. Or like your friends just have really bad taste. But the third time that you see Bucky isn’t at the coffee shop—it’s on Friday, at the Thirsty Goose, Nat’s favorite bar. For some reason, he and Nat really get along. Maybe it’s how they both seem like they could kill you with a plastic spoon and a paperclip. 

You’re trying to focus on sipping your drink while they chat in Russian; Tony, Clint, and Sam are playing darts (Clint is winning, obviously) and Steve is discussing the baseball game with Bruce. Wanda’s grabbing a round. And you’re just tipsy enough to be dangerous. 

You finish your drink and walk up to the bar to grab another gin and tonic, accidentally nudging someone tall, dark and handsome with your hip. His name is Henry, and he chats you up for a while, buys you a few more drinks, and is all around friendly, charming, and nice, until he says, “Hey, that your boyfriend? Because he’s staring at us.” 

That’s when you realize that a certain barista is burning holes in your head with his gaze. And while Henry is nice, and you haven’t edged into fully drunk territory, suddenly you feel like tempting fate. 

“We’re not dating, but uh…”

“It’s complicated, I get it.” 

“No, not even that. We don’t really even like each other. It’s just…” You find yourself lost for words. Henry recognizes when he’s been beaten, though, and bows out politely, turning back around to face the bar. Bucky sends you another heated look, and as always, you decide to do what he’ll least expect. You walk over and sit down squarely on his lap. 

The expression of shock on everyone’s faces is priceless. But Bucky, as always, is quick to recover. “Decide to get rid of that loser over there, sugar?” 

You respond by shifting positions on his lap. You don’t miss the tiny breath that escapes his lips at your motion. “Nah,” you say. “Just thought I’d come over here and make you a little uncomfortable.”

You realize that this plan has backfired on you when you’re perched on a rock-hard thigh and achingly, incredibly turned on. You’re aware of every time he shifts; it sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. Unconsciously, you’ve started to dig your nails into his leg, and your underwear is dripping wet.

To be fair, it doesn’t seem like he’s doing much better—his hand is fisted in the back of your t-shirt, and every time you move, he groans and grows a little stiffer. His eyes have started to get darker the longer you’ve been sitting there. 

But both of you are stubborn jerks playing a game of chicken, for all that you're managing to carry on a normal conversation, none of your friends seeming to notice the state that you’re in. Ironically, it’s the most cordial you two have been in months. 

You zone out, letting your mind wander, which is a terrible idea. Your brain is filled with images of Bucky’s hands all over your body and his lips on yours…You leap off of his lap suddenly and make a feeble excuse. “Sorry, guys, I have to take this call from my sister.” You grab your jacket and make a beeline for the door, hoping that the air will cool your traitorous head. 

It’s cool and peaceful outside the bar. You lean against the wall for a few minutes, desperately trying to calm down, and you think you’ve managed it when the door swings open again. 

Bucky strides out, piercing grey eyes dark as stormclouds and focused on you. You stand there for a few seconds as he comes unbearably close. You want to crush yourself into him, grinding your hips against his, running your hands down his back. You want to touch him so badly that you reach out a hand. He’s so close that you can see the darker grey that rings his irises.

You can see his hunger to touch you in his eyes. Almost as if on impulse, he reaches out, cups your jaw, and crashes his lips down onto yours. For a second you can’t even move. The kiss is rough and breathless; a slide of lips and tongue and your hands are fisted in his hair as you kiss him back eagerly, and he winds a hand around your waist and pulls you closer. He bites your lip, and you moan just a little bit. He kisses you harder, fiercer at that, and it’s so good, and you’re halfway ready to take him home right then. 

It seems like hours later when you pull back breathlessly, even though the last thing you want to do is stop. He smiles, knowing, satisfied, still holding you, hands wrapped gently around your waist. 

You’re shell-shocked. 

“What—what was that?”

“You didn’t really think I spent all of that time teasing you because I hated you, did you?” His breath blows against your ear, and you shiver. 

"I—yes? What else could it be?"

"You were so goddamn beautiful, and you didn't notice me no matter how much I tried."

"Well, that's not true at all—"

His lips move to your neck. "I was always irritated, 'cause even when I pulled dumb shit like writing your name wrong on your cup or crashing your dates you never asked why." He nips your collarbone. "Plus some of it was pure sexual frustration, If I'm honest."

"You blacklisted me from all of the caffeine in New York!"

"You set a demon dog loose in my place of work, so I think we're even on that front."

You're still incredulous. "I can't believe you decided that making me hate you was a better plan than oh, I don't know, being nice? We could have been doing this months ago, you idiot!" You hit him on the chest. "It took me a week to get up the nerve to come back into the cafe while you were working, I was so nervous! I blushed every time you talked to me, you oblivious loon!"

Now it's Bucky's turn to be floored. "You...what?" 

"We could have been doing this—" you repeat, motioning between you and him—"a lot sooner, if you hadn't decided to be a constant source of aggravation in my life." 

Bucky looks like he wants to punch his past self in the face. He sighs ruefully. "Looks like we have a lot of catching up to do." But you've been distracted already, gaze trained on his lips. 

"Damn right we do," you breathe, almost to yourself, and you're kissing him again. 

You stop long enough to tell your friends you're leaving and hear the room erupt in wolf whistles before you head back to Bucky's place. The next morning, you walk to Miranda’s together, hand in hand.


End file.
